Tightspin,
Pivot,
Thrust
herself against the world.
Twirling skirted banner
in a simple cotton print.

Hiccuped up by circumstance,
armored by her welts
and bruised ideals she spins
protective down the street,
no street of dreaming ways.

Burning hands stopped reaching out
to slow her frenzied cyclic dance,
as parking meters stared her down the way
of having nothing simple left to say of love.

Trailing, useless comments pave
the air behind,
And “Come to town’s”,
the “Frightful Girl’s”
“Don’t Understand’s”,
all chorus to her life’s refrain
from shop to window sill.

“I heard she was,”
“They say she lives,”
“I see her now and then.”

Quickstep hop,
assault a curb,
a dart among the leaves
of scattered moving cars
she cleaves her purpose
filling Saturday.

Agitated satellite
among the shops and
stopping for the blanking glance
of windows,
never doors,
she twirls her orbit of the town,
then reaches perigee alone,
until the gravity of life recalls her name.

11/22/2007

Posted on 11/22/2007
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers